


No Worse, At Least

by newredshoes



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Episode Tag, Gen, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-09
Updated: 2014-05-09
Packaged: 2018-01-24 03:57:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1590806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/newredshoes/pseuds/newredshoes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Garrett wants the Winter Soldier. Ward wants to be the man who brings him in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Worse, At Least

**Author's Note:**

> I'm totally writing this as wish-fulfillment; it is a terrible, terrible idea for Grant Ward to fight the Winter Soldier. Getting in before canon screws me up.

"There's one toy still missing from the box. I want you to go get it for me. I'd send Peterson, but I don't want to spook him."

When Garrett held out his phone, with the blurry footage of the Winter Soldier streaming from a news site, Ward went still. Garrett shrugged.

"I'd say welcome to the big leagues, but ain't nothin' special about finding out with everyone else. The asset's got a directive, and he's probably looking for his orders, same as a lot of folks. I want you to bring him in and set him up, with or without accessories."

"I've been following this story," Ward said. "He was seen on the helicarriers but not after."

"Wrong again!" Garrett grinned. "Picked up his heat signature ninety minutes ago at the goddamn Air and Space Museum. You can wear all the jackets you like, but a metal arm won't hide that easy."

Ward frowned. "What was he doing at the Smithsonian?"

"You don't know? Shit, Ward, I bet you'd enjoy it. There's a whole Captain America exhibit there. He and Winter Soldier were best pals back in the day."

Ward crossed his arms. "You're telling me the Winter Soldier, who exists, is Bucky Barnes, who died in 1945?"

"Yup! And neither Rogers nor Romanoff could get the better of him." Garrett dropped the phone into his jacket pocket. "You wanna see how you stack up?"

*

D.C. was a mess: there was no way it wouldn't be. The Triskelion had left a hole in the skyline that threw Ward every time he looked for it. The site was all cranes and recovery teams still, and there was no sense in poking around there: no good assassin hung around to watch the clean-up. What didn't make sense was why the Winter Soldier would misstep so bluntly.

Ward had never been to the Smithsonian, and the Captain America exhibit was packed. Visitors swarmed one docent, who repeated, over and over, that history is always in dialogue with the present and that current events would make their way into the exhibit copy as soon as they had sorted out what precisely everyone was dealing with. Ward read every placard, but save for a neighborhood name in Brooklyn, he couldn't find much that seemed useful.

It was a lot harder to hide now than it was during the Cold War. Everyone learns those methods as a matter of course today; still, even if he didn't quite have the Winter Soldier's scent yet, it moved Ward, in some manner, to see them executed so perfectly.

The asset was still a ghost, though. Ward thought he almost had him, once, in Dupont Circle, but the trail ended nearly face to face with Steve Rogers.

Ward had never met him, had never even seen him in person. He'd listened to Coulson fanboy the guy, though, months and months worth. Rogers looked weary, even from across the street. Garrett called him "morally constipated" and liked to mock his uniform. Ward always thought Rogers had an artist's eye for performance and symbol that Ward tried to draw from, in his own way, for SHIELD.

He picked up some other important information. Rogers, who must have felt eyes on the back of his neck, never spotted him. They were about the same height, and though Cap's body was iconic, their builds were similar enough. He went drab to blend in, rather than dark neutrals: khakis, navy blue jacket, nondescript hat. Ward tracked where Rogers was searching: rooftops and alley openings, nothing inside. Rogers bought a cup of coffee and retreated back to his apartment. Ward stayed behind, but the high ground was still and quiet.

*

That's the thing Ward likes about infiltration: you get one foot in the door and everyone just does your work for you. Rogers and the guy with the wings, Wilson, were definitely soldiers and not spies. They left a trail a mile wide for anybody to follow. The show wasn't for him, but Ward made himself a part of it. The Winter Soldier was sure to be watching too, and it was for him that Ward left calling cards, traces to follow, glimpses that were messages.

Garrett had the location, and Ward had the message all ready to go for when he had the asset in hand. Now it was just a matter of waiting, which he did, in the metal folding chair he carried to the middle of a warehouse, abandoned somewhere in Northern Virginia before 1970. The space was so open, there was always the risk he wouldn't come, but still Ward sat, in his khakis, navy jacket and nondescript hat, and waited.

The bullet whizzed by so close, if he'd have flinched, he'd have lost his ear. The shot came from high up (a handgun, not a rifle), but the Winter Soldier had a knife to Ward's throat bare seconds later. "Why are you following me?" he growled from behind.

Ward didn't move, not even to hold his hands up in surrender. "I wanted to be sure of you."

"I don't know you."

"No, you wouldn't."

His wrist pressed harder against Ward's throat, but not the blade. The arm, the famous metal arm, flickered into sight as the Winter Soldier whipped Ward's cap off and tossed it away.

"Who sent you?"

"My name is Grant Ward."

The Winter Soldier kicked away the chair. Ward twisted, shot out of it and turned to face him. No armor, no gun — no accessories. Ward had a couple inches on him. An olive t-shirt sagging at the neck still couldn't conceal the seam at his shoulder. He'd shaved, and hacked off his own hair, to some extent. He looked hollow, hungry, hunted. Ward showed him his palms.

"I want to help you."

The Winter Soldier stared at him. He was young, Ward realized: maybe even younger than him, if you only counted the time he'd been awake.

"Help me what?" he said at last.

"My CO is a man named John Garrett. He wants to give you a couple of warm meals and a place to sleep at night."

The Winter Soldier twirled his knife in his flesh hand. Ward held up his phone.

"One call from me and he can pick you up in that field outside. We have a plane with facilities, and it's safe."

"Who's his boss?" The Winter Soldier's expression remained tense but blank. "Was it Pierce?"

"They were colleagues," he said slowly.

"Then you're Hydra," said the Winter Soldier. "You a volunteer?"

The name of the neighborhood in Brooklyn from the Smithsonian exhibit came back to Ward in that moment, in the split-second before the Winter Soldier lunged at him, with no mask to hide anything.

Ward was a hell of a fighter. He was even before he went through SHIELD and learned all their tricks. He received high marks for efficiency, form and determination. Like Romanoff, he was comfortable with everything.

Ten seconds into the Winter Soldier's assault, he began to get scared.

He was prepared for the arm. He had body armor of his own, beneath this old man's outfit. But the Winter Soldier punched like a railroad gun, too fast and too relentless for Ward to keep track of him. He blocked every fourth move, maybe, but he'd underestimated what it meant, that this was a true super-soldier. Ward scrabbled for a knife, a gun, anything, but the Winter Soldier was everywhere, roaring, furious, fighting all of Hydra just because he had Ward handy.

He tried dropping; the Winter Soldier rolled after him. He tried a headlock; the Winter Soldier bucked him off. He tried herding them both toward a wall, something to give him leverage, anything; the Winter Soldier threw him back into the middle of the floor. The asset wasn't just an assassin; he was an instrument of terror, his every movement intimidation and brutal force. Ward, in whatever part of him that wasn't devoted to staying alive from instant to instant, began to wonder if Garrett was testing him or just plain getting rid of him. The Winter Soldier seemed to gain momentum the longer they fought.

_"Bucky!"_

All it took was one voice, one name shouted out. The Winter Soldier lurched to a stop, his arm raised. Through one eye, Ward saw him look toward the voice; his whole face changed, into something much younger and more fearful. That was all the glimpse Ward got: the Winter Soldier dropped him and dashed away, boots pounding on the warehouse floor. A figure blurred after him: khaki pants, a leather jacket, a shield. Ward coughed and tried to catch his breath, tried to roll to the side, to get back on his feet.

"Uh-uh."

Wilson. The one with the wings. Pointing a gun right at his chest. He frowned, disappointed. "Man, are you that guy I heard was talking bullshit about my friend Natasha?"

Ward opened his mouth, but Wilson shushed him again. "No, I think you earn the right to talk." Maybe it was for the best: Ward's ribs felt like mush, and he knew his face was all broken open. It wasn't weakness, it was simple, observable fact.

Wilson watched him while the sounds of fighting and shouting traveled around and outside the warehouse. He didn't look away from Ward once. "Thanks for being the only bait that's worked so far, by the way," he said, still casual. "He'd have never come so close if you hadn't spooked him like that."

 _I was following you,_ he wanted to say, indignantly. Then: _I stacked up._

 _No worse than Rogers,_ he thought. _Not even him._ Ward held onto that, straining to hear who came back in, and how.


End file.
